


Burning Bridges

by AtLeastWeWontBeLonelyInHell



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Hurt, re-post from 2013
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2019-10-11 03:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17439455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtLeastWeWontBeLonelyInHell/pseuds/AtLeastWeWontBeLonelyInHell
Summary: They just weren’t meant to be.He just wishes he wouldn’t already know that.





	Burning Bridges

**Author's Note:**

> And a BIG special thank you goes to the wonderful clairebare for beta reading!

**Burning Bridges**

.

.

_„You’re going to leave, aren’t you?“_

_„Excuse me?“ He looks up from his book and finds her standing in the doorway to her office. A look on her face he hasn’t seen before._

_„You’re going to leave, aren’t you?“ she asks again, this time almost challenging._

_„Lisbon,“ he starts softly, letting his book fall shut._

_„When it’s over, when he’s dead. You’re just going to leave me. Aren’t you?“_

_He should lie, he knows. At least he should try to lie to her. But it’s something in her eyes that makes him aware of the fact she already knows._

_There’s no point in lying to her anymore._

_„You’re right,“ he whispers remorselessly, the book still clutched to his hands. „As soon as he’s dead, I’m going to leave.“_

_._

He’s not sure how he ends up completely wasted in the office, but somehow he does.

He’s stumbles through the bullpen, almost tripping over his own feet a couple of times. And it feels like a fucking miracle to him, when he mangages to make his way to the couch in one piece .  _(Finally sinking into the soft cushions)._

His head hurts and he has to close his eyes to keep the damn room from spinning. And he knows he shouldn’t have gotten this drunk.  _(Or maybe he shouldn’t have gotten drunk at all).  
_

It had been a normal day, really. Until he’d gotten a glimpse of himself smiling, feeling whole again. And even when it had been just for a second, it had freaked him out.

He’d been hiding in the graveyard for the rest of the day. Ignoring her calls, sending her away ruthlessly when she finally found him there. And he knows he’d hurt her. _(He’d seen the tears of betrayal glistening in her eyes)._

He tries hard not to think about their talk a few days ago, when he’d been sitting in her office reading, and she asked him if he would just leave her in the end all of sudden.

Maybe he should have lied to her then. _(But who would that have done any good)._

It’s her voice, saying his name, that brings him back to his couch in the bullpen. He has to blink twice, before he finds her standing a few feet away, worry written all over her face.

He’s watching her coming closer, asking him what happened. She looks tired, her clothes ruffled and he’s sure she’d been sleeping in her office again.  _(Just another thing he’s responsible for)._

He knows about the things she’s hiding in her desk drawer, knows about the things that keep her going. Knows he’s the one she’s doing it for. _(Even if he doesn’t deserve it)._

She’s standing right in front of him, her hand touching his face gently. And he just wishes things could be different.

He knows he would run away with her, would get her the moon and the stars if she asked for them, too.  _(He would save her)._  But the truth is, he can’t.

They got too close,  _far too close. (And now it will be the death of her)._

He’s feeling sick, tears blurring his vision and he wants to warn her, but he’s already doubling over vomiting. He tries to tell her that he’s sorry, but ends up vomiting again and like the selfless woman she is, she doesn’t even flinch.  _(And he’s pretty sure he ruined not just her shoes, but her pants too)._

He feels her hand on his back, her voice whispering soothing nothings. And he can’t stop thinking about that nickname of hers. _(She really is a saint isn’t she)?_

She’s waiting patiently until he’s done throwing up those bloody marys over her shoes, before she’s helping him lie down on the couch in a stable side position. Mumbling something about looking for a bucket.

And he makes himself a mental note to buy her new shoes and pants first thing in the morning.  _(As soon as the world stops spinning)._

His eyes are falling shut eventually and he’s not sure how long she’s gone before she’s beside him once again, putting a blanket over him and placing a garbage can beside him.

He wants to thank her, but he’s afraid he’s going to throw up again and so he doesn’t.  _(It’s not like he has anything useful to say anyway)._

She tells him it’s going to be ok, sitting down on the couch beside him. Telling him they’re going to get  _him,_ her hand softly holding his _._  And he knows she’s right.  _(That’s what he’s scared of)._

Because even if they get him, even if he gets his revenge and won’t end up dead or in prison, his family will still be dead.  _(Their blood still painting his dreams crimson)._

And he isn’t going to forget, isn’t going to move on. He brought this upon them. And he just can’t be a husband or a father ever again.

He lets his eyes fall shut once more, squeezing her hand gently.  _(Hoping she’s going to forgive him one day)._

He just can’t be the man she wants him to be, can’t give what she needs.  _(And there isn’t a happy ending waiting for them at the end of the road either)._

_They just weren’t meant to be._

He just wishes he wouldn’t already know that.

.

.


End file.
